While We Are Asleep
by felix-felicis33
Summary: A rare medical condition that causes unpredictable sleep and lucid dreaming allows people to travel into the dreams of others. Two boys with the condition meet in a dream and form a unique relationship while they are asleep. But with one of them seeking a cure and the other reliant on the escape the dreams provide, everything may just unravel as quickly as it all begins.
1. Chapter 1

It started with the sense of not quite right. Everything felt all too real, yet at the same time there was a startling wrongness; things that just shouldn't be. Sometimes these slipped by unnoticed to him, the blips accepted by his subconscious as being normal, while at other times it was as if a big, flashing neon sign was pointing down at these abnormalities, trying to warn him that this wasn't real. In the early days, he'd never noticed these until it was too late. On his most difficult days, these were what saved him from spiralling into panic and fear. On his good days, these were enough for him to break free.

Today wasn't a good day.

Sunlight bounced off the roofs of cars as far as the eye could see, the dazzling light causing Kurt to blink and narrow his eyes, squinting against the glare. He needed to find a parking space.

Steering the car down yet another row in the parking lot, he turned his head from side-to-side rapidly, searching for a vacant space. Nothing.

Despite the large volume of cars choking the seemingly never-ending parking lot, the whole area was almost eerily deserted. This didn't trouble him though, he was used to being in places as uninhabited as ghost towns. Not that he knew where he was.

As he drove at a crawl down another row of parked cars, he glanced around him through the windows, trying to gather some clues to take a stab at guessing where he might be. Palm trees were planted in strategic intervals throughout the desolate parking lot, the sky was the clear, bright blue of forget-me-nots – the blue of a warm summer's day – and the air coming through the cracked window was warm. There were no signposts, parking meters, or markings on the road – features that Kurt associated with parking lots. When he reached the end of another full row he suddenly realised what was unusual about all of the parked cars: none of them had license plates.

Out the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a space between the endless blocks of color that were the back ends of parked cars – all of the cars were parked facing the same direction in an orderly fashion in the exact center of the spaces. He braked and the car came to a stop, the low rumbling of the engine loud in the complete silence of the surrounding area, and examined the space. It was between two small cars – one bottle green, the other cherry red – and was very tight, too tight for his car to fit into. Unbuckling his seatbelt he opened the car door and clambered out. Taking a step back from his car, he glanced between the car and the space, his eyes darting rapidly between the two, as he wondered.

The thought had barely formed in his mind when his car moved. One moment it was crouched on the road beside him, the next it was squeezed into the tight space he had been examining, somehow shrinking down enough to fit between the green and red cars. This would be considered unusual anywhere else, something to marvel at, but here it was a possibility; anything was.

Turning his back on his vehicle he set off along the row of parked cars. It felt a lot shorter walking it than it had done when he had been driving. His footsteps made no sound on the smooth, dark grey, featureless road; the only sound here was his own steady breathing. No singing birds, no breeze rustling through the palm trees, nothing, just a silence so complete that in another place it would seem suppressive, but was just natural here. He didn't know where he was walking to, just that he had to walk in this direction and that there was no other way for him to go.

A sprawling building rose up out of nowhere in the previously featureless horizon. One moment there was nothing but countless cars to see then, a blink of an eye later, the building was there. Just like the rows of parked cars had suddenly seemed shorter, one second the building was on the horizon, the next it was only several feet in front of him. He paused and tipped his head back to see a façade of dull grey concrete and numerous windows that he instantly recognised – his high school. There was no surprise at seeing it here, no sense of '_this shouldn't be here'_; he had expected this.

He approached the glass and wood doors and pushed the right-hand one, it swung open soundlessly and he stepped inside. The school's foyer seemed to form as he looked around: the reception desk to the left of the doors, the wide double doors leading into the hall directly in front of him, the corridors leading to the classrooms off to the left and the right, the noticeboard on the wall just by the right door with several large, colorful, illegible notices and flyers pinned to it. Brushing a rogue strand of hair out of his eyes, Kurt took another step into the entryway and suddenly he wasn't alone. Faceless students and teachers crossed the foyer walking between the corridors and the front doors, some on their own, others in groups, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and books and files in the arms of several of them. None of them made a sound. The sounds of dozens of footsteps, the squeaking of shoes on the plastic floors, the loud buzzing of many voices interspersed with an occasional shout of laughter, sounds normal in any high school, were absent, and still the only sound was Kurt's own breathing, except for a faint, almost imperceptible humming.

Like he had known where to go out in the parking lot, he knew where he had to go here. He crossed the foyer, students parting before him like the red sea for Moses.

The layout of his school was exactly as he remembered it and he walked purposefully along corridors and up staircases, his gait smooth and soundless, as if he were gliding. He didn't know what time it was, but nobody appeared to be in any classes as the corridors and stairwells were packed with students and the faculty members. Doors to all the classrooms were firmly shut, the rooms in absolute darkness through the small, square windows set in the doors and Kurt felt no urge to enter any of them – that was not why he was here.

The crowded corridors inexplicably began to empty when he reached the second floor. One moment he was pushing open the heavy fire doors set partway along the second floor corridor and streams of blurred people were moving soundlessly out of his way, the next he was glancing around blankly, wondering where everyone had gone. Confusion slowly began to settle in like the first snowflakes of winter, drifting almost lazily downwards to land on the ground, gradually building up over time.

The featureless corridor suddenly opened out on his left into a large area like an oversized alcove. A wide window let in generous streams of sunlight which striped in beams across the two rows of low wooden benches in the center of the recess. Banks of shiny, grey metal lockers lined the two walls perpendicular to the window, their brushed metal locks gleaming dully in the sunlight. The nearest beam of sunlight wavered a little as he stepped towards one of the benches, as if it were afraid of him, but it held its ground as he stepped into it. His shadow, dark and elongated, stretched across the floor in front of him as the sun hit his back. It lit the ends of his hair, turning them a golden blond color, but it didn't warm his back; there was no heat in the bright light.

A loud, clear voice suddenly rang through the alcove and echoed down the corridor. The voice was unfamiliar, male, and was issuing from what Kurt assumed was a PA system, though he couldn't remember if his school even had one of those and he couldn't see any speakers. The voice spoke mechanically with no emotion in its tone, announcing the imminent arrival of a tornado and advising everyone to take cover as quickly as possible.

Kurt spun around as the voice stopped and silence fell again. The sunlight was disappearing before his eyes like the sunset was running on fast-forward. The shafts of sunlight glided away from him and when the final one disappeared he ran forwards to the window.

The previously brilliant blue sky was now hidden by swirling, dark grey clouds that hung ominously over the school and as far as the eye could see. The clouds glowered down at him as he watched swirls of purplish-black being whipped into view by the strong wind that had started blowing. Lowering his eyes from the sky he saw the palm trees bending over almost in half with the force of the gale, fronds being ripped from them and flung through the air. The faint humming Kurt had heard earlier grew louder.

Turning away from the window he strode briskly past the lockers and out into the deserted corridor. He marched along it in the direction he had come from earlier until he reached the stairwell where he paused. A tall window spanned the entire height of the stairwell and through it Kurt could see the approaching tornado. The giant, funnel-shaped cloud was made up of a boiling, swirling mass of angry greys, purples, and blacks. Debris was being flung around in it like vegetables in a food blender. The thick clouds surrounding the tornado glowed every now and then with flashes of lightning. Where the tornado touched the ground the earth was being churned up, the concrete of the road torn up and demolished, and the trees were ripped up by the roots.

He stood frozen with awe for a moment, entranced by the sheer force and power of the storm and by the strange beauty of it: the roiling colours, the forking lightning, and the churning clouds. He stared until the storm came close enough for him to make out individual branches of the trees and chunks of concrete being flung mercilessly around by the funnel of cloud, and then he began to run.

He took the stairs three at a time, his feet thundering against the concrete and his hand grabbing at the banister whenever he misjudged a step and his foot slid off the edge, almost sending him sprawling. He didn't know where he was running to, but he knew he had to go somewhere else; he couldn't stay by a window or on a staircase.

Jumping the last four steps he landed in a cat-like crouch and sprinted off down the corridor, shoving at the fire door he encountered. The humming had become a dull roar and his breath escaped him in gasping pants. There was still no one else in sight.

Classroom doors stood wide open at random, revealing orderly rows of wooden desks and chairs facing a teacher's desk at the front of the room instead of the darkness they had previously contained. Through the windows in every room he glanced in, searching fruitlessly for another person, he could see the ever-advancing storm. Impossibly large and dark, it tore towards the school, roaring and growling like some giant beast.

He was racing flat out along the corridor leading to the entrance foyer when he caught a glimpse of overturned desks out the corner of his eye. Skidding to a halt, he backtracked until he was standing in the doorway of a large classroom – one of the English rooms – _his_ English room to be exact. Desks had been overturned, chairs thrown down onto their sides, and loose sheets of paper blew across the carpeted floor in the gusts of wind coming through the partially opened window. Kurt took a cautious step into the room, his eyes frantically searching for the person responsible. Wind blew hair back from his face as the tornado got closer and paper flew through the air, most of it now being ripped out through the rattling window.

Another step and he still couldn't find the source of the destruction. Loud crashing, banging, shattering, and roaring filled the air – the storm was starting to tear apart everything outside the school, like the untamed beast that it was. There was no more time to run; the school would be hit in the next few seconds.

He dived for the teacher's desk, the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't been toppled, and crouched under it, his hands gripping two of the sturdy legs so hard his knuckles turned white. The horrific sounds of the tornado beast sinking its claws into the school began a split-second after he took shelter under the desk. His heart pounded almost painfully in his chest, his hands shook, and the instinct to run coursed through him, but he gritted his teeth and held his ground; there wasn't any chance of outrunning the storm.

When the window shattered, he squeezed his eyes shut, pleading for the storm to somehow miss him. He didn't know who or what he was pleading with – unknown forces? The tornado itself? – but the fear drove him to it. These were the ones he really hated, the ones that induced real fear: hands trembling, heart racing painfully, muscles tensing, stomach churning, and shaky breath sawing out of him.

The sound reached an almost deafening decibel and it was impossible to identify individual noises of destruction; it had just become an ear-splitting, nonsensical roar.

The desk moved a little, scraping along the thin carpet, and Kurt gripped at it tighter, the edges of the legs digging painfully into the palms of his hands. It moved again, jerking backwards suddenly, the front of the desk smacking into his side and knocking him over. His eyes flew open as he hit the ground. He scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the wall of the classroom as the desk continued to scrape heavily along the floor. It smashed against the wall with a crash that was lost in the continual growl of the storm. Debris was smashing into the desks and the walls. It was close; there was no way he was going to make it out of this.

In what he was sure would be the final seconds, he glanced across the classroom through the small gap between the front of a smashed desk and the floor, his gaze skittering and panicky. He didn't know what made him do it – his body's last desperate attempt to find an escape route, maybe – the last thing he wanted to see was the tornado tearing and growling its way over to him, a satisfied rumble emitting from it as it eyed up its new prey, but there was some pull that made him turn his head and look across the partially destroyed room. His gaze locked on a pair of wide, hazel-colored eyes.

And then it was over. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Welcome to another one of my stories! It's been a while since my last multi-chapter story, but I now (finally) have the time for one.

The idea for this story has been hanging around inside my head and written down in various places for at least 2 years now. The original intention was to write it as an original novel, but I haven't had the time for that, so fanfiction it is! (My version of) Kurt and Blaine's voices flow easily from mind to paper, so at the moment writing them is much less time-consuming than writing original characters.

This first chapter is a bit prologue-y, but the next one will get more into the story and explanation of what exactly is going on ;)

One last note: I'm going to tentatively rate this 'T' at the moment, but that may go up to an 'M' depending on later details in the story that are still in the early stages of being fleshed out.

Thank you for reading! :)

And thanks to my beta, BleedingHeartsBeFree!


	2. Chapter 2

Kurt was exhausted the next morning. Getting up and driving to school passed by him in a haze of tiredness. His grainy, stinging eyes struggled to focus on anything, and he viewed his usual weekday morning routine in a series of blurred snapshots: his phone on the nightstand lit up with the time, toothpaste barely clinging to the bristles of his toothbrush, buttons slipping out of fumbling fingers, the breakfast he barely touched dumped in the trash. It was probably worrying that he'd driven himself to school this morning, but he didn't have the energy to care.

The artificial lights of the school halls had an odd, lazy blur to them. The off-white floors seemed too bright and the banks of lockers lining the walls had an unusual sharpness to them. Kurt's heavy head pounded dully from the assault of dozens of raised voices, a starkly unwelcome change from the soft purring of his car's engine. The thought of the headache brewing in the back of his head was almost enough to make him turn around and head back home to bed.

Almost.

It took him three attempts to get his locker open, but he didn't really pay attention to what he was doing the first two times he attempted his combination, his focus slipping away before he'd even selected the first number. The day was going to be a disaster; it always was following a night like last night, when he hadn't been able to pull himself into wakefulness quick enough.

His best friend Rachel appeared by his side as he was pulling books from his locker. Bubbly, chatty, and endlessly enthusiastic, Rachel was a tiny whirlwind of energy who stopped at nothing to get what she wanted. She used to be the very picture of someone Kurt didn't want to be around when he'd had a bad night, but Rachel had long since learned the ability to sense when he wanted to talk about one of his bad dreams and when he'd rather sit in silence. He loved her for it.

Rachel took one look at Kurt's drawn, pale face and his slow, sloppy movements and her face morphed into an expression of quiet understanding. She waited until Kurt had closed his locker before looping an arm through his.

"Let's go to class," she said gently.

She guided him down the hall towards their first period English class in a manner reminiscent of someone guiding a blind man. In a sense, he _was_ blind to the typical goings-on in the halls they walked through, his glazed eyes sliding unseeingly over the groups of chattering girls, fist-bumping football players, and laughing band members who were swinging the cases holding their instruments in their hands. His head was a static fuzz of cotton wool, and the sights his eyes landed on got lost in the thick stuffiness.

It was a relief to sit down in their English classroom – weaving through the packed corridors had taken more energy and dexterity than he had at the moment. He allowed himself to slip into a stupor while waiting for class to begin. In the seat next to him, Rachel busied herself with setting her notebooks and pens on her desk.

As his thoughts drifted away from the classroom, his mind replayed a scene from last night's dream. The boy with the hazel eyes standing by the doorway of the room he'd been in, his presence enough to jolt Kurt awake as he suddenly became aware that he was dreaming. Those eyes meeting his own had been the unusual feature that had told him _this isn't real_, the trigger that had enabled him to wake up.

It wasn't seeing another person in his dreams that was unusual, it was having a connection with them, a true connection that he felt right through to his bones; he'd never experienced that before. That was how he always woke up from his dreams: he saw something that didn't seem right, he became consciously aware he was dreaming, and he woke up. The trigger was usually something banal, like an object that had been flipped upside down or warped slightly, something being the wrong colour, or proportions being wrong; it had never been a person before.

"Kurt!"

Starting out of his thoughts, Kurt jerked away from the sharp elbow Rachel had just jabbed into his side. He glared at her, rubbing his ribcage pointedly, but she just nodded her head at the front of the room where their teacher had begun the lecture.

Hoping he wouldn't bruise, Kurt opened his notebook and picked up his pen, knowing full well he'd never get away with not paying attention while sitting next to Rachel. She hated it when someone didn't listen and then had to ask for clarification later; he'd learned that the hard way.

By third period his teachers were starting to notice his inattention. His math teacher, Mrs. Harper, sent him a number of hard, disapproving stares and made a point of calling on him for answers several times. At the end of the lesson while everyone was making to leave, she called to him to wait behind for a moment. Biting back a heavy sigh, Kurt stood by her desk and waited for his classmates to file out of the room. Once they were alone she turned to him with a stern look.

"Mr. Hummel, how do you expect me to do my job and help you get a good education if you don't pay attention to what I'm trying to teach you?" She peered at him expectantly, her slightly protruding eyes giving her the unpleasant look of some kind of unblinking toad.

Kurt resisted the urge to pinch his brow with his fingers. "I'm sorry, I just- Last night was difficult."

He didn't really expect Mrs. Harper's expression to soften into understanding and he wasn't proven wrong.

"Mr. Hummel, I know your…condition may make school a little more challenging some days, but if you put in a bit more effort you can surely manage." She lowered those unpleasant eyes from his face and began straightening papers on her desk just as her next class started trickling in. "I won't give you any special treatment – lack of sleep is a poor excuse for substandard effort in the classroom."

She nodded briskly at Kurt in a manner that told him he was dismissed and he scurried out the door, his feet automatically taking him to his next class.

A lot of people, like Mrs. Harper, didn't get it. What he suffered from was so rare that most people hadn't even heard of it and out of the ones who had very few actually understood it. With lack of understanding came severe ignorance: people thinking his only problem was he was tired a little more than the average person, and the tiredness was perfectly manageable – just have a cup of coffee and he'd be good to go, right?

Wrong.

With a soft sigh, Kurt massaged his temples, trying to alleviate some of the tightness and stuffiness in his head. He was starting to wish he'd taken the easy option and stayed at home today. If only he wasn't worried about falling asleep…

"Dude, are you okay?" Sam asked when Kurt dropped into the seat next to him, immediately closing his eyes. "You look kinda pale – more so than you normally do."

"I'm fine; just tired," Kurt assured him. He kept his eyes closed, the darkness soothing.

"Oh." Sam was quiet for a moment and Kurt knew without having to open his eyes that his friend was trying to think of the best way to respond. He knew Kurt hated suggestions that he go home and sleep and he wasn't a fan of sympathy, either. Neither of those were of any help to him.

"That sucks, man," Sam said eventually.

Kurt hummed noncommittally in response. He heard the rustle of paper next to him and guessed the lesson was about to start, but he didn't open his eyes; he was in no hurry to have the bright lights and colors assault them again. He allowed himself a few more seconds of peace, before opening his eyes and getting ready for the lesson. If there was one thing he couldn't do in class, it was fall asleep.

The rest of the school day dragged on and Kurt was glad when it finally ended. He wanted to go home, lie on his bed, and rest his eyes. At this point he didn't even care if he ended up falling asleep; he'd take the risk of seeing that boy with the hazel eyes again. He was so damn _tired_.

His step-mom, Carole, was in the living room when he arrived home, watching some chat show on TV. She looked up from her program when he walked through the front door and immediately muted the TV.

"Kurt, honey, what's wrong?" She shifted on the couch to get a better look at him. "Did something happen at school today?" Her forehead creased in a concerned frown and her voice was tinged with worry.

Despite only marrying his father six months ago, she treated Kurt as if he were her own son and they were close to the point where Kurt felt comfortable telling her almost anything. Carole wasn't a replacement for the mom he lost in a car accident when he was eight, and she wasn't trying to be, but she was a fantastic step-mom and a good friend to him. In spite of this, he still hesitated before telling her the truth.

"I didn't sleep well last night," he admitted. "It wasn't a particularly pleasant dream – it was verging on a nightmare, really – and it took me a while to break out of it."

Carole's eyes filled with understanding, while the concerned frown lines on her forehead deepened. When Kurt had told her about his condition back when she and his dad had been engaged, she had taken it upon herself to learn all about it, reading up on the history and physiology of the condition, the sleep disturbances and other symptoms it caused, and all of the latest research and potential treatments. Sometimes, Kurt wondered if she understood it all better than he did. But with all of this understanding and knowledge came the suggestions of doctor's visits and enrolment in clinical trials for possible new therapies. Kurt knew she meant well, but he couldn't help but dread conversation about his condition with her.

Hoping to head her off before she could reel him into a discussion about whatever new article she'd read, Kurt shrugged nonchalantly.

"It's no big deal. I'm just a little tired, that's all." He took his satchel off his shoulder and set it down on the floor. "I'm used to it."

Carole didn't look convinced by his blasé attitude. "You look _ill_ with it," she said. "You're so pale."

Kurt forced a smile. "I'm fine. Like I said, I'm used to it."

He headed into the kitchen to grab a drink of water and held back a resigned sigh when he heard Carole following him.

"I know you don't like seeing doctors about this, but this isn't healthy, Kurt; you can't go on like this."

Kurt took his time opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water, allowing the snappy retort that had sprung to the tip of his tongue to sink back down his throat. Carole didn't deserve an angry, argumentative response even if this wasn't the first time she'd said this to him and he was sick of hearing it. He knew she meant well and had his best interests at heart, but she just didn't see this from his point of view.

He could sense Carole's hesitation; could almost feel her confliction in the air. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle slowly and took a sip of water.

"Maybe you could visit a doctor again," she suggested tentatively. "There have been some positive results for this new medication-"

Sucking in a sharp breath, Kurt spun around to face her. Some water splashed out of the bottle and landed on the side of his hand where it began dripping down his wrist. "I don't want to see another doctor," he said tersely. He was sick of going round and round in circles with doctors. When Carole opened her mouth to speak again, Kurt gave her a small apologetic smile. "None of those treatments work. This is just something I have to live with."

He'd accepted this fact a long time ago, back when he'd been a skinny nine-year-old with grazed knees sitting at the office of yet another doctor who was about to tell him that there was no treatment option for him. He'd tried numerous drugs, from sleeping pills to experimental medicines that attempted to reduce the activation of the brain's parietal lobe during sleep to decrease the relay of sensory information. None of these had helped. He'd accepted that he was going to have these dreams for the rest of his life and he knew other people living with the condition had, too, but still his dad, Carole, and some other sufferers were determined an elusive treatment would be found.

Carole deflated visibly, her shoulders slumping and the tiny spark of hope dimming in her eyes. "Okay," she said in a small voice. "It was just a thought." She bit her lip, gazing at him sadly for a moment. "I just hate seeing you like this."

Guilt crept through Kurt, making his insides feel shrivelled up. He had tried going to doctor's visits and taking medicines to appease his family, but the deceit made him feel just as bad as the guilt at turning down their offers to help. He couldn't go back to doing that again, no matter how bad he felt saying no to Carole now.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, meeting and holding his step-mom's gaze. "I know you're only trying to help, but I couldn't stand going back to that cycle of testing and failing with doctors and drugs. I'd rather have the dreams."

Carole still looked uncertain, her brow still furrowed with concern, but she nodded all the same.

Taking a step backwards, Kurt waved a hand in the direction of the stairs. "I'm gonna go start my homework."

At Carole's acknowledging nod and smile, he fled the kitchen and headed up to his room, scooping up his bag on the way. He feebly hoped putting a floor between himself and his step-mom would alleviate his guilt. When he was inside his room he tossed his satchel on the floor and threw himself down onto his bed.

Kurt's room, like that of most teenagers his age, showed evidence of his favorite music artists, his path through high school, and his social life. CDs were lined on shelves above stacked textbooks, framed photographs of his friends and family were displayed beside trinkets he'd accumulated over the years, and the usual collection of electronic gadgets were scattered throughout the room. What separated Kurt's room from that of most teenage boys were the Broadway playbills, jars of moisturising creams, and pile of Vogue magazines. The final thing that made his room unique among most others was the evidence of his condition: the tried and tested treatments and therapies that he'd abandoned after no improvement: sleep masks, aromatherapy oils, CDs of relaxing music, and one or two herbal remedies. Right then he was almost desperate enough for a peaceful sleep to re-try some of them.

Had he not been so tired he would have noted that this was the first time in a long while that he was desperate for a dreamless sleep. Usually he liked having the dreams, though he would never admit it to anyone. There was one main reason for this: bullies.

A sharp clanging and a goading sneer carried clearly over the dull roar of many students in one of McKinley High School's main hallways the next morning as Kurt was shoved roughly into a bank of lockers. Only one or two people passing by spared Kurt a glance as he stood slumped against the locker, clutching at the arm that had smacked against the metal and wincing, everyone else ignored it as they did with other such daily occurrences, such as the cafeteria staff clearing away dirty trays, the janitor mopping the floors, and the front office staff talking on the phone. Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and winced again as a bolt of pain shot through his elbow. If only his tormentors would ignore _him_ like that.

Triumphant laughter and the slap of several high-fives moved along the corridor away from Kurt as he stood there waiting for the spasms of pain to ease. When the pain had receded somewhat he opened his eyes and pushed himself off the locker he was leaning against. He tugged up the sleeve of his sweater to check the damage and sighed – his elbow looked slightly red from impact and felt tender; there would definitely be a bruise later. Annoyed, Kurt yanked his sleeve back down. Add that to the two blotchy purple marks on his back and that was his third bruise this week, and it was only Wednesday. Mentally reminding himself that it would soon be summer and then he'd only have one more year left in school, Kurt picked up the books he'd dropped and went to his next class.

Despite his best efforts, counting down the time remaining until he could escape McKinley High wasn't enough to get him out of bed and to school each day. Friends, Glee club, and his 'I will survive' attitude could only help so much, and on some days, when homophobic bullying and complete indifference from nearly all students and staff was rampant, it wasn't enough to keep him from hating his life.

It was times like this when he liked his condition. He liked the escape the dreams provided, the freeing sense of being in a world that didn't judge him for being who he was. Sometimes, he wished he would stay in the dreams for days, or – rather wildly on particularly bad days – forever. He didn't really mean such thoughts – he would miss his friends and family too much to stay in dreamworld – but when the bruises were still throbbing and the slurs were still ringing in his ears, it was a nice thought.

* * *

><p>Jiggling his leg in a fit of nervous energy, Blaine frowned across the waiting room at the cork board plastered with medical alert notices and information posters. Somewhere in the row of chairs to his left an elderly gentleman coughed hoarsely and he found himself inadvertently hoping the man didn't have anything contagious. With his massive school workload, an upcoming piano recital, and a performance at a local charity event coming up, the last thing he needed was to get sick.<p>

He checked the time on his watch and his apprehension increased when he saw his appointment time had just ticked by. His doctor was running a little behind schedule, but he had expected that; she was busy. It did give him more time to stew over his concerns about his last dream. This wasn't a good thing.

Leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, Blaine sighed softly. He just didn't know what would be the best thing to do. He could see pros and cons to both options and he didn't know which way the balance swung more favorably.

As he sat there, his mind bouncing backwards and forwards between the two options, the face of the boy he'd seen in his dream appeared in his head. Pale skin, thick brown hair, and blue eyes, the boy had shocked Blaine into waking up when their eyes had met. Blaine had never seen anyone like him before which could only mean one thing: he had travelled for the first time last night.

In a normal dream every face seen was one which the dreamer had seen before at some time in their lives – the brain couldn't create completely new people. And it wasn't just the boy's unfamiliar appearance that had alerted Blaine that this was something different, it was the fact that the boy had seen him, too; they had connected. In people with his condition, oneironauts, seeing someone in your dreams that you had never seen in your life meant you were travelling. It was fairly common in people with this condition; they not only dreamed lucidly, they were able to share dreams with other oneironauts, to travel into their dreams. That's why they were known as dream travellers.

While travelling was something most oneironauts experienced, it tended not to occur immediately after diagnosis; which was why, in his four years of having the condition, this had been Blaine's first time experiencing it. He wasn't all too sure how he felt about it, really. Though he didn't particularly believe dreams were symbolism for his struggles or what was happening in his life, he still thought having someone else in his dream was an invasion of privacy. He was unintentionally sharing the same dreamworld with a stranger while asleep and vulnerable; it was unsettling. And it was whether or not to share his first travelling experience with his doctor that had him conflicted.

Blaine chewed indecisively on the inside of his cheek where the flesh was already raw and slightly ragged. He knew telling his doctor would probably alter the treatments they were trying and would possibly lead to her asking him to spend another night or two in the sleep laboratory so they could measure his brain activity while he travelled – it would be a great research opportunity for her. But he also wanted to keep this private. There was something about the boy he'd seen in his dream, something about the way he'd felt when their eyes had met that made him want to keep it to himself. Then there was the fact that the dream wasn't purely his, he'd shared it with the blue-eyed boy – shouldn't he get a say in this? It didn't feel right to invite a doctor to study someone else's private dream.

Blaine was stirred out of his thoughts by the doctor calling his name.

"Sorry for the wait," Dr. Lewis said, showing Blaine into her office. "We've been flat-out all day and I had to fit in an emergency earlier…" She sat down at her desk, indicating for Blaine to sit down opposite her. "Anyway," she smiled warmly at Blaine, "how have you been since we last saw each other?"

"I-" Blaine shifted in his seat, thoughts of the boy from his dream still lingering at the forefront of his mind. "Good." He paused, collecting himself and trying to remember what all had happened since his last appointment. "I don't think those new pills are helping."

"Hmm." Dr. Lewis scanned the notes on her computer screen for a moment. "There's been no change in the frequency, length, or lucidity of your dreams at all?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not that I've noticed, no."

Dr. Lewis made a note on her computer. "And what about the music? Has it altered your dreams at all?"

Along with a new medication supposed to alter the activity of the brain during sleep, Blaine had been playing a CD of specially selected, relaxing music while he slept that was supposed to influence what he dreamt about. By combining the two, Dr. Lewis had hoped to change Blaine's dreams to ones that were less vivid and more similar to what was considered a "normal" dream. Blaine had been dutifully taking the pills and playing the music every night for over three weeks now and had seen no difference. Yet another failed effort at treating, or at least controlling, his condition.

He shook his head again. "It didn't make any difference: my dreams were just the same as always," he replied.

Dr. Lewis turned away from her computer to look at him intently. "And you didn't notice any change in the subject matter or atmosphere of the dreams? No patterns or links to the music?" she asked.

Other than the presence of someone else in his latest dream there had been nothing, and Blaine had finally decided to keep the travelling to himself for now. Telling his doctor just felt wrong.

He shook his head for the third time. "Nothing."

Dr. Lewis looked mildly disappointed, but she hid her feelings quickly and wrote up a few more notes, the computer keys tapping loudly in the otherwise silent room.

Blaine couldn't even bring himself to feel sorry for denying Dr. Lewis the opportunity to perform research on the dream travelling phenomenon, he was far too relieved that his inherent nature to please everyone hadn't made him reveal something he would much rather keep private. He had avoided himself and another teenage boy dealing with the same condition being guinea pigs in experiments that would be detailed in research papers and that was far more important to him than making his doctor happy.

He settled more comfortably in his seat as the remaining vestiges of nervous tension left him.

Dr. Lewis frowned at him contemplatively, her left elbow resting on the desk and index finger tapping rhythmically against her mouth. "We have two ways we can go from here, Blaine," she began, speaking in slow, ruminative tones. "We can continue with the combination therapy of medication and music that you're on – results from clinical trials show that it can take up to eight weeks for effects to be seen – or we can discontinue that particular therapy and keep an eye on these new therapies being trialled and see if we can give any of those a go." She lowered her hand from her mouth and looked questioningly at Blaine. "What do you think?"

Blaine didn't have to think about it, he'd known what he'd wanted to do before he'd arrived at the clinic. "I think I'd like to take a break from therapy for the moment."

Dr. Lewis nodded and made another note on the computer. "Okay, that's fine. You can dispose of any pills you have remaining at a pharmacy and I'll keep watching these ongoing trials and let you know if anything is worth trying, alright?"

"Okay." Knowing the appointment was over, Blaine got to his feet. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome." Dr. Lewis smiled at him. "I'll be in touch."

Feeling light and liberated now that he was free from medication and restraining therapies, Blaine all but skipped out of the clinic and into his car. For someone who had been tirelessly seeking an effective treatment for his condition with hopes for an eventual cure, it should be odd that he was so happy to put some distance between himself and therapy, but he didn't care; he had other things on his mind now. He wanted to travel again, and he wanted to see the blue-eyed boy again. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I am so sorry it took so long to get this chapter up. My beta reader and I had technology problems. We are aware of them now so we shouldn't have that problem again.

This chapter should answer many of the questions I'm sure many of you had after reading the first chapter. If you have even more questions, well, you'll just have to keep reading ;)

Thank you to everyone reading and to those who left reviews!

And thank you to my beta, BleedingHeartsBeFree :)

Have a great holiday season, everyone, whether you are celebrating something or not! And if I don't have a new chapter up before the end of the year, Happy New Year to you all! :D


	3. Chapter 3

Blaine was barely in the front door before his mom pounced.

"How was your appointment?" she asked, her eyes searching his as he dumped his car keys on the little table by the door. "Blaine…" she chastised, her gaze switching to stare pointedly at his keys.

With a sigh Blaine picked them back up and put them inside a little wooden box his mom had bought a few months earlier as a nicer alternative to the jumbled dumping ground that had used to sit upon the table. Blaine thought it was silly to put essentials like keys in a box from which he would only have to untangle them the next morning; his mom disagreed.

His mom smiled when he closed the lid on the box. "How was your appointment?" she repeated.

Blaine hesitated a second. "It was a bit of a mixed bag, I guess." He took a few small steps away from the door, wanting to move out of the entrance way, but feeling trapped there by his mother's intense stare.

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly, jumping in before Blaine had a chance to explain.

"Dr. Lewis and I both felt it was best we discontinue my current therapy," he said delicately, feeling rather like he was tip-toeing around a sensitive landmine. "I didn't think it was helping any and she agreed."

His mom frowned. "You never told me it wasn't working."

"I didn't want to say anything until I'd spoken with Dr. Lewis. I didn't know if I'd been doing it long enough to see any effects."

Raising an eyebrow, his mom looked at him shrewdly. "And had you?"

"I- Yes," Blaine lied. He swallowed down the tremor in his voice. "Yes – Dr. Lewis doesn't believe continuing it for longer would be of any benefit." He shrugged nonchalantly, hoping his mom wouldn't cling on to the failed therapy and start researching and calling up doctors and uncovering his little white lie.

He didn't like lying to his parents, or anyone for that matter, and as a result it was something he was terrible at. He also had very expressive eyes that managed to give away everything he was feeling even when he didn't particularly feel like sharing. Despite all of this, he'd still had to lie to his mom about the therapy. If she knew that he should have really continued it for another month to see any potential benefit, she would have demanded he go back on the treatment. His excuse of wanting a break from testing treatments wouldn't be acceptable, either.

To his relief, his mom didn't press the issue. Instead, she sighed, looking a little disappointed. "So what's the good news?"

Blaine forced a smile. "There are a few trials finishing soon that Dr. Lewis thinks look promising. As soon as any publish hopeful results, she says she'll get me on the treatment," he said, trying to inject as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could.

His mom only looked thoughtful. "Maybe that's what we should go back to: trials," she murmured slowly. "I know they're a bit of a hassle, but it may be where you get the treatment you need."

Before Blaine could say anything in response she wandered off, no doubt heading for the computer to look up any recruiting clinical trials she could sign him up for.

With an exasperated sigh, Blaine climbed the stairs to his room, valiantly hoping there weren't any suitable trials currently recruiting patients. He knew his hope was wishful as oneironautics was such a hot topic in medical research at the moment, but he couldn't help but cling to the feeling, holding it in a tight grasp along with the memories of his tornado dream from the other night and the boy he'd seen in it.

He nudged his bedroom door closed behind him and made a beeline for his nightstand, wrinkling his nose at the remnants of failed therapies that were scattered throughout the room. He tugged open the top drawer of the little wooden cabinet and grabbed a box of pills sitting on top of a smattering of bits-and-bobs he had tossed in there over the years. With a feeling of immense relief and satisfaction, he strode over to his closet and dumped the pills in a half-full tub of tried-and-tested medication. He shoved the tub back in its spot on the top shelf. The CD of relaxing music went straight in the trash.

Yawning, Blaine sat down at his desk and tried to get started on his homework, but frequently found himself staring sightlessly across the room, pen tipping in his slack hand, his thoughts back on travelling.

He'd known travelling would be a likely scenario for him based on the statistic he'd been told and which his parents had fretted over, but he'd still never really thought he'd experience it. He'd given it a bit of thought over the years: wondering what it would be like, imagining the person he'd share a dream with – but it had still seemed akin to pondering what it would be like to meet a celebrity. It was nice and slightly scary to think about, but he hadn't expected it to go beyond thoughts. He was glad it had; it had been interesting to say the least.

His parents, he knew, wouldn't feel the same way.

Since the day Blaine had been diagnosed they had been searching for a cure. They had taken Blaine to doctor's appointments all over the state and further afield, they'd made him go on dozens of different treatment regimens, and registered him on numerous clinical trials. When he was younger he had complained; he hadn't understood that anything was wrong with him and he had found all of the appointments boring, hating that they took up time he could have been using to play games or practice the piano. As he had gotten older he had started to understand his condition and had quickly picked up his parents' view on it: scared and desperately wishing to be normal. From then on he had no longer minded the inconvenient treatments or regularly being poked and prodded by doctors; he had wanted to get better.

He knew his parents would be terrified if they found out he had travelled, his mom in particular. He knew it would spur a frenzy of appointments and scans and sleep EEGs. He didn't want that. He didn't want the hectic battle of trying to fit schoolwork and a normal life around the medical stuff. He didn't want to go back to sharing his parents' mind-set: to being too scared to sleep, to sleepless nights and drinking endless amounts of coffee, to setting alarms so he only slept in short bursts and avoided dreaming, to sitting hunched over in the most uncomfortable position he could while listening to loud music and working on essays for school. Anything not to sleep long enough to dream.

His parents had a perfectly valid reason for being scared and the same fear still lingered in the back of Blaine's mind, a nagging worry that burst to the surface every now and then, leaving him chewing the inside of his cheek and wondering if he was doing the right thing by keeping the travelling a secret. For oneironauts, it was always a possibility that they could enter a dream and not wake up from it for days, weeks, even months. In one or two cases the dreamers had stayed asleep for several years in what doctors referred to as dream comas. So far, nothing that doctors had tried had been successful at waking someone from one of these comas; they had only woken up by themselves. This all pointed to the possibility that, theoretically, he could fall asleep, enter a dream, and never wake up again. The thought alone had been enough to keep him from sleeping for three days.

Inhaling sharply through his nose, Blaine sat up straighter in his chair and tried to return his focus back to his schoolwork. Despite several cups of coffee and a determined attitude, he'd still struggled to keep up in all of his classes today, his head heavy and foggy from lack of sleep. He needed to catch up; the last thing he wanted was for his grades to drop because he dreamed a little differently to most people. He didn't want his sleeping habits to interfere with his chances of getting into a good college to study music.

At the thought of college, his mind spun to something that had plagued him since the school and his parents had first brought the subject up: how to manage his condition at college. He wasn't sure how he would succeed at college with such an erratic sleeping pattern. He knew whichever college he went to would support him and make special arrangements as necessary, but he'd heard the stories of fellow oneironauts dropping out of school when it all became too difficult to handle. This was one of his and his parents' greatest fears and the main reason they were pushing to get treatment or a cure for him.

Tapping his pen against the textbook laying open in front of him and frowning indecisively down at the pages, Blaine wondered, yet again, if he was doing the right thing by not mentioning the travelling to anyone. His mind flashed back to startled blue eyes widened in panic and the spark of some kind of connection zipping through the air.

Yes, he decided, focusing upon his schoolwork once more, he was doing the right thing.

Another three nights passed before Blaine dreamed lucidly again. Oneironauts didn't have fully immersive, lucid dreams every time they slept; instead, it tended to happen about four or five nights a week. On these other nights, they experienced a soothing, shifting mix of colors and shapes with a more physiological brain activity. Doctors believed this to be the body's defensive measure against the condition to enable survival, and were fascinated by the implications of the ratio between lucid dreaming and what they called restorative dreaming. Blaine didn't care too much about the science behind it; he just liked it because it gave him a good night's sleep.

In his next lucid dream Blaine found himself standing in the narrow, cobbled street of what appeared to be an old European town. From the architecture and layout of the town, he guessed it was somewhere in Italy, like the little villages near Rome that he'd visited with his parents when he was thirteen. The buildings on either side of the short, alley-like street he was standing in were crooked and intersected by twisting dark green tendrils of ivy, leaning in towards each other so the sunlight formed a jagged stripe down the center of the road. The sky above Blaine was periwinkle blue and the air felt neither hot nor cold; it just was.

Wanting to see more of the place he was in, Blaine walked along the street, following the curve of the walls on either side of him towards the brightness at the mouth of the alley. Though the sunlight was brighter at the end of the street, it didn't bother his eyes any and he didn't feel the need to squint or shield his eyes. The light brightened further and then he stepped out into a large, square courtyard.

Like the street he'd just emerged from, the courtyard was cobbled. The uneven stones glowed under the sun in a multitude of colors, from warm reds to bright golds. Blaine paused at the mouth of the street, running his gaze over the buildings lining the perimeter of the courtyard: some appeared to be businesses and shops of a sort, while others had no obvious use. They were all made from the same sort of stone which was a soft golden color. Flower boxes decorated some of the windows, adding vibrant bursts of color here and there.

A number of people were hurrying about the square, all of them dressed in fashions from another century. They were all faceless; as meaningless to him as he was to them. They all ignored him as he slowly made his way further into the courtyard, his gaze still sweeping over the surrounding buildings. Despite not paying attention to where he was going, nobody bumped into him, the slightly blurry crowds parting in front of him no matter which way he turned.

Slowly, Blaine became aware of a persistent ticking sound. Once he did notice its presence, it got louder, until he couldn't help but hear it. At first he didn't think anything of the ticking noise – sometimes there were sounds that didn't have any source or any real meaning, they were just there – but then his eyes landed upon a tall clock tower looking down over the courtyard from the far end and suddenly it became apparent to him that the ticking was from the clock and it was counting down to something. Ordinarily, this would have concerned Blaine, but as he studied the large white face of the clock and the burnished red tiles of the steeple roof, he didn't think anything of the ticking noise; it just was.

Moving deeper into the courtyard and closer to the clock tower, Blaine started to feel something, the presence of a sensation that had not been there earlier. The feeling got stronger the closer he got to the clock until it became strong enough that he could begin to recognize it for what it was: a prickling realization that he needed to do something.

Turning, Blaine's eyes alighted upon someone walking away from him, a man with brown hair who was wearing a navy short sleeved shirt. For some reason he felt a pull towards this man, a calling that he should follow him. Without questioning it, Blaine started after him, crossing the courtyard to another one of the narrow streets leading off it.

By the time Blaine reached the street, the man he'd been following was nowhere in sight. He made his way further along the street and emerged in a brightly lit, modern day classroom. He stopped just inside the entrance.

The room looked like the classrooms he remembered from his elementary school days minus the highly colored posters and pictures covering the walls. The small, white, plastic-topped desks were arranged in a horseshoe shape in the center of the room, all of them facing a blank white wall. Around half a dozen people were already sitting at the desks and, unlike the faceless people from the courtyard, they each had the face of one of his classmates from elementary school. Blaine wasn't surprised or confused by this; he didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary.

The only other person in the room not sitting down was the man he had followed here. He was standing a little in front of Blaine with his back to him. Blaine took a step closer to him and the man turned.

It was the teenage boy from the tornado dream; the traveller he had shared his dream with.

Shock flooded Blaine, freezing his muscles so he was rooted to the spot. He felt a sharp, tugging sensation somewhere deep in his abdomen, but it was almost immediately overwhelmed by something deeper and stronger that kept him standing in that classroom staring wide-eyed at the boy from his dream.

The boy was clearly experiencing the same emotions and sensations Blaine was, for he gaped silently at Blaine for a long moment, his lips parted in surprise. His eyes were bluer than Blaine remembered, his skin paler and smoother, and his shoulders wider.

Making a decision, Blaine cleared his throat. "H- Hi." He did his best to smile warmly, aware his body was trembling and his muscles didn't seem to be working properly.

The boy continued to stare at him, the shock in his eyes slowly being replaced by something else.

"My name is Blaine," Blaine introduced hesitantly. He wasn't sure what the etiquette was for people in this situation: did they become friendly and enjoy the time together or did they politely look the other way and allow the other person to dream in private?

The emotion in the boy's eyes coalesced into uncertainty and his gaze flicked to something behind Blaine, before shifting to the horseshoe of desks to their right. Beginning to feel unsure of himself, Blaine took another step closer.

The boy's eyes widened again and he darted around Blaine, ignoring his protest and sprinting down the street they had just walked along, before vanishing.

* * *

><p>Kurt woke as abruptly as though his alarm had gone off. For a confused moment, he thought it <em>had<em> done and he started to reach for his phone, until his senses caught up with his brain and he realized his room was still in complete darkness with not even the faintest of dawn light outlining his window. Heart still racing, he settled back down against the pillows and tried to relax enough to fall asleep again.

The remnants of his dream still clung to him. He imagined he could hear the ticking of the clock and see the outline of the old buildings through the shadowy darkness of his room. In his mind's eye he could still see the unfamiliar faces of the children sitting in the classroom and he felt a ghost of the tugging sensation of his body trying to wake him up, the unfamiliarity making his dream-self consciously understand he was dreaming, thus ending the dream. His slowing heart rate picked up the pace again when he remembered the hazel-eyed boy, the other traveller. He had spoken to him, introduced himself (Blaine, his name was Blaine), had wanted to talk to Kurt and yet, for some reason Kurt hadn't been able to reply. For some reason, despite his curiosity towards Blaine, he'd been so shocked that Blaine had spoken to him that he'd run away. He hadn't even made it back into the courtyard before waking up.

Kurt rubbed at his burning eyes – waking up in the middle of a dream always made his eyes sting and left him feeling wrong-footed. He knew he should try and put the dream behind him and go back to sleep as trying to analyze everything while feeling this way would only make him feel worse, but he couldn't stop his mind from replaying Blaine's hopeful expression and he could still hear the sound of that damn clock ticking. He couldn't help but feel he had just screwed up something important. He had that same sinking feeling that he experienced whenever he walked out of an exam and heard everyone around him discussing answers different to his own. Why had he been so stupid?

Knowing he had little chance of falling asleep now, he sat up in bed, moving until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress where he could rest his feet on the bed frame. There he stared unseeingly at the wall opposite him, thinking.

He'd known it was possible to communicate with those you shared a dream with. From what he'd heard from other travellers, you could interact normally with the other person in your dreams. When he'd been a little younger and fascinated by the thought of meeting someone in his dreams, he'd read everything about travelling that he could find online: every article, blog post, and research paper he came across. Back then he'd thought it would be so _cool_ to have a friend to spend time with while he slept. As travellers seemed to be drawn to share dreams with people who shared a similar mind (experiences, personality, and opinions), and were, thus, of a similar age, twelve-year-old Kurt had been sure he would become good friends with whoever he shared a dream with. He'd learned a lot since then and his fantasy of having a friend in his dreams had dimmed somewhat. Quite often travellers didn't want to get to know each other or would rather have privacy in their dreams, some fought and started dreading sharing a dream with that person again, and the vast majority never shared dream with the same person often enough to get to know them. From this he knew it was uncommon that he had shared a dream with Blaine on the only two occasions he'd travelled and he also knew this meant it was highly likely he would continue to share dreams with Blaine. The thought made Kurt's heart stutter.

Another fact he remembered from his research was that emotions were often skewed in dreams and it was sometimes difficult to remember things outside of the dream unless there was a strong emotional attachment to it, like family, stress, and tragedy. He'd heard of a few instances where this had caught people out, causing problems in the lives of themselves or their fellow traveller. He didn't want to become one of those people where the line between dreams and reality was blurred.

Sighing, Kurt dropped his head into his hands and buried his fingers in his hair. While he'd been thinking the sun had just started to rise, a faint light now glowing around the edges of the curtains. The shadows in his room were more pronounced, the outlines of his furniture sharper. Distantly, he could hear what sounded like every bird in the world singing, their songs getting louder the longer he sat there and thought. It was a soothing sound; a reminder that no matter what happened in his dreams, everything stayed the same in reality: the sun would always rise, the birds would always sing. It was a reminder that a fresh start was always possible.

One thought he couldn't help but dwell on was the torment he was subjected to at the hands of the bullies at school – what would happen if Blaine shared the same views as they did? What if Blaine was just as ignorant, spiteful, and homophobic as his classmates? Dreaming was supposed to be his sanctuary, his escape; he couldn't risk losing that.

Shaking his head, Kurt dropped his hands from his face and watched the sunlight around the edge of his curtains brighten. He was probably overcomplicating things. After all, he'd only travelled twice and Blaine seemed friendly enough – what was the harm in getting to know him? 

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Glee is back (final season :'( Can you believe it?), so here's a new chapter to celebrate! Bit more explanation in this one and another meeting! I know people have been wondering about how the dreaming works for the boys - hopefully you've gotten a little more insight.

I meant to mention this in the first chapter's author's note: most of the dreams mentioned in this story (including tornado dream and the one in this chapter) were dreams I had in the past. I remembered my tornado dream vividly for days afterward and so I wrote it down in case it would be of use for a story and lo and behold this story spawned from that.

Thank you all for reading and being so patient with the (currently) somewhat erratic updating. And thank you for all of the reviews!

As always, thanks to my wonderful beta, BleedingHeartsBeFree!

As for Glee and our boys: I have always believed they will get a happy ending :)


	4. Chapter 4

"You look like hell, kid."

Kurt swallowed a mouthful of coffee and looked up to meet his dad's concerned gaze. He wished there were better ways to hide his tiredness from his dad, because no brightening moisturizers or anti-fatigue under-eye concealers could completely disguise his bad night.

He hadn't been able to sleep again. He had stayed awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and thinking while the sun had slowly risen, his room had steadily lightened, and the birdsong had quietened to the occasional chirp. He knew he looked bad. His eyes had been bloodshot and his face pale when he'd finally gotten up and took a look at himself in the mirror. He had splashed some water on his face, but had been too tired and preoccupied to care enough to attempt to conceal the dark circles shadowing his eyes and the dull complexion of his skin. Even picking out a fashionable outfit for the day had been too much for him; instead, he'd thrown on whatever comfortable clothes he could find before roughly styling his hair. He was just glad it was the weekend and he didn't feel obligated to put in an effort. Of course, he'd known this would set off alarm bells in his dad's head, but there was nothing he could do about it.

His dad stayed silent as he made himself some breakfast, but Kurt could almost hear the thoughts circling inside his head, all of them worrying about Kurt and his health. There was nothing Kurt could say to ease these worries, so he steadily drank his way through a strong cup of coffee and waited for his dad to speak. After a few minutes, Burt Hummel sat down opposite Kurt and fixed him with a worried frown.

"I know you said you don't want to – but maybe you should go see a doctor again. It's been a while since your last visit – maybe there's a new treatment that helps."

Kurt drained the last of his coffee and sighed. "There's nothing new – nothing that works, at least – and you know that." He wished he could give a different answer; wished he could relieve his family of the worry over his health and wellbeing.

His dad absently stirred his bowl of cereal, his brow still furrowed in worry, his gaze once again running over Kurt's unusually dishevelled appearance. "I just worry about how this is affecting your health," he said. "It can't be good for you running on such little sleep all the time, and they don't really know how that could affect you in the long-term."

'They' were the doctors and scientists focusing their research on oneironautics, trying to understand the condition and to find a treatment for it. So far, little distance had been made in the attempt to find a treatment and results had only been a little better for understanding the condition. The condition had only started being diagnosed properly fairly recently and, as such, studies on the long-term implications had not yet been completed. From his dad and Carole's rigorous searches through the internet, Kurt knew that doctors were only guessing at the long-term effects by comparing it to insomnia, though the conditions were vastly different. If those guesses were correct, however, then he was looking forward to having a greater risk of heart disease, diabetes, and cognitive problems. He could see why his dad was so worried. He personally tried not to think about it.

"I only want what's best for you, Kurt," his dad continued, giving Kurt an imploring look across the table, the way he had done back when he'd last convinced him to see a doctor. "You know that, right?"

Pushing down the small, wavering urge to give in to his dad's wishes, Kurt stood up to make himself another cup of coffee, hoping to wash down his frustrations and doubts over the issue with some more caffeine. Behind him, he heard his dad shift in his seat.

"Carole mentioned you turned down her suggestion to talk to a doctor about a new medication the other day."

Keeping his gaze fixed on the mug steadily filling with coffee, Kurt gave him the same response he'd given Carole. "I don't want to return to being in an endless cycle of testing different new drugs that fail each time. I've accepted that I have to live with my condition for now, and I would like your and Carole's support in this." Mug now full, he picked up his coffee and carried it back to the kitchen table. "I know you both mean well and I appreciate your concern, but I've made my decision."

His dad nodded, his expression softening to one of resignation. "I just worry about you being tired while driving and going to school and doing exams and stuff. It scares me how this makes you look and act sometimes, Kurt; like a friggin' zombie."

Kurt watched the coffee swirl in his mug for a moment, sorting through the thoughts in his head. "If they find a treatment that has been shown to be effective, then I'll go and see a doctor and take it, but until then I'd rather just live like this. I don't want to spend my life as a guinea pig."

His dad waited until he'd looked up and met his eyes before responding.

"You know I'll support whatever decision you make," he said sincerely. "I just can't help but worry." He gave Kurt a small smile. "I'm your dad, that's my job."

Kurt returned his smile, feeling grateful that he had a parent who was supportive like this instead of one who thought every big decision their child made was wrong and they always knew what was best for them.

"Thanks, Dad."

Silence fell over the kitchen, but it was comfortable, unlike the stilted pauses from earlier. His dad finished his breakfast while Kurt drank his coffee and waited for the caffeine to kick in. As gratitude for his father continued to fill him, Kurt's thoughts returned to the subject that had been preoccupying him for days now. It suddenly felt right to tell his dad about travelling and Blaine. Keeping something as big as that from his dad had never sat comfortably with him and now that his main reason for keeping it to himself was no longer an issue, he didn't see the point in not telling him. The problem was how to word it without making him worry again, right as he was starting to feel better about his condition.

In the end, Kurt decided there was no real way to break the news gently. He cupped his coffee mug with his hands, drawing comforting strength from its warmth. "Dad, I've got something to tell you about my condition."

His dad's face immediately paled, the skin around his eyes tightening with worry once again. Kurt quickly backtracked. "It's nothing bad – I promise! It's-" He hesitated for a bit, unsure exactly what it was. "It's something."

His dad watched him solemnly, the concern in his face not lessening any. Kurt took a sip of coffee as he got his words together. "I travelled in my dream for the first time the other night. I shared a dream with someone else."

He paused to give his revelation some time to sink in. After a moment of tense silence, his dad exhaled slowly and Kurt searched his features over and over again for some clue as to how he was taking this. The lines of concern and tightness around his mouth hadn't smoothed out any and a small part of Kurt began to fear that his dad would take back his acceptance and force him to go and see a doctor. He gripped his coffee mug tighter.

"Who did you share a dream with?" his dad asked in a low voice, his calmness surprising Kurt, who had been preparing for him to behave more frantically.

Kurt licked his lips. "His name is Blaine. He's a teenager – must be about the same age as me."

His dad's eyes widened. "_Blaine?_" he repeated. "You know his _name?_"

"He spoke to me; the second time we met he introduced himself." Kurt's stomach squirmed uncomfortably at the memory of his own behavior afterwards.

Eyes still wide with shock, his dad stared at him for a moment, looking as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How many times have you seen him?"

"Just twice," Kurt replied. "Both times I've travelled."

"And he spoke to you?"

Kurt nodded. "Yes." He pushed his empty coffee mug aside. "It's only normal for him to do that; a lot of people talk to the person they share dreams with."

Scratching at his chin, his dad nodded in slow contemplation. "Did he seem alright? I've heard about some people not liking who they're sharing dreams with."

Kurt opened his mouth to agree and hesitated. How could he assure his dad Blaine wasn't someone he could see himself having problems with if he had never spoken to him?

"I- I guess he's friendly enough – I mean, he came over and introduced himself – but I- um, I never actually spoke to him." He felt himself flushing, his cheeks warming to a rosy red as the shame at rebuffing Blaine's friendly advances filled him. His dad's eyebrows had risen in surprise again, and Kurt fumbled to explain himself.

"I'd only seen him for the briefest of moments in the first dream we shared and I was so surprised to see him again and for him to speak to me that I couldn't say anything in response. Soon after he introduced himself, I woke up."

Kurt was aware he sounded defensive, but it was the truth. He had been shocked to the point of speechlessness. While it was impolite to ignore someone's warm greeting and open, friendly smile, it was different being in a dream. Despite knowing about travelling, he still hadn't expected it to happen to him, let alone that he would travel into a dream with someone as at ease with the whole situation as Blaine. From the stories he'd read, it usually took people numerous shared dreams to finally talk. The situation was far too extraordinary and fragile for social norms and other expected behavior to be followed.

Fidgeting with his coffee cup, Kurt waited to be chastised by his dad about manners and reminded that he could very well be sharing dreams with Blaine for years to come so he had better apologize and be amicable towards him. He was only right about one of these things.

His dad rested his elbows on the table and levelled his gaze at him. "I know you were surprised and a little bit scared of talking to this guy – I probably would have felt the same way in your situation – but, Kurt, you've gotta get off on the right foot with him. You can't allow a bad relationship to develop between the two of you. You're sharing your dreams with him – that's something pretty special. If what they say in all of those research papers is true, then there are bits of both of you in these dreams: wishes, fears, your past and present. You could be sharing all of this for the rest of your lives – imagine how hard that would be if you didn't get along?" His dad leaned a little over the table, moving closer to Kurt, eyes searching Kurt's face to gauge his reaction. "You can't afford to deliberately bring hostility into this. I'm not saying you did this, but you need to be careful. It sounds as though Blaine may be trying to do the right thing; you should, too." He sat back, nodding his head a little in apparent satisfaction that Kurt understood what he'd said. "Talk to this Blaine, get to know him. You never know, you may actually like him – you guys are supposed to have similar brains or something, aren't you?"

With the heavy weight that had been dragging him down and consuming his thoughts since he'd woken up beginning to lift, Kurt smiled. "Thanks, dad."

His dad reached over and patted his hand. "Anytime, kid."

* * *

><p>When Blaine entered school on Monday morning he made a beeline for the lockers where his best friend Wes was standing. Before Wes could look up from the books he was gathering in his arms, Blaine flopped dramatically against the bank of lockers.<p>

"Am I giving off this terrible, horrifying person vibe that no one has had the decency to tell me about?" he asked in lieu of a greeting.

Wes didn't even look up from where he was rummaging in his locker. "Good morning, Blaine, how are you on this fine spring day?"

Blaine's shoulders sagged. "I'm being serious!"

Finally looking at his friend around the open door of his locker, Wes sent Blaine a pointed look. "You're being dramatic."

Blaine said nothing to this; instead, he swivelled round until his back was against the locker, and let his head fall back against the cool metal with a soft thud. It wasn't that he was upset at Wes for teasing him when he was so troubled by something – he'd been overdramatic enough in the past to warrant it – it was that he'd been re-playing what had happened in the dream so often since Friday night that he was beginning to question the person he'd always considered himself to be. If he was as empathetic and attuned to other people's feelings as he'd always believed, then why did he not think the boy from his dreams may not be ready for a friendly conversation? And why had he thought it would be a good idea to sneak up behind him and then pounce on him with an introduction? He shouldn't be surprised the boy woke up.

At Blaine's frown and downcast eyes, Wes slammed his locker shut and turned to face him fully. "What's wrong? Did you finally try to talk to latte-loveheart guy and scare him off with the far-fetched sub context you read in his coffee milk art?"

Blaine sighed and rolled his eyes, unable to help a tiny smile from twitching a corner of his mouth upwards. "You know I didn't." He twisted back around to face Wes again. "And why would he put lovehearts in everyone's coffee if it wasn't Valentine's Day?"

Wes smiled teasingly. "Because he was still learning? Because he felt like drawing hearts with the milk for a while to alleviate the repetition of his job?"

Blaine shook his head. "I'm not so sure, Wes. I swear he winked at me when I picked up my coffee."

"That wasn't a wink, I saw him adjusting his contact lens not moments later."

Unable to hold back his laugh, Blaine waved his hands in resignation. "Whatever, whatever. I did not go to the coffee shop over the weekend."

"So what's bothering you?" Wes asked, his expression shifting from teasing to serious and concerned in the blink of an eye. "Is it your parents again?"

Sobering, Blaine shook his head. "No, it's not my parents. You know how I travelled in my dream for the first time a few weeks back?"

After stewing over everything that had happened in his first shared dream for several days, Blaine had decided to confide in someone about his experience. He had never been one for keeping things completely to himself and found talking about his issues with someone to be greatly beneficial for sorting it all out in his head and establishing his feelings on the matter. With his parents and doctor immediately ruled out of discussions about travelling, Blaine had decided Wes was the best person to confide in. He knew all about Blaine's condition and had supported him through all of the exhaustion and side effects from experimental medication in the past. He had never failed to help Blaine turn whatever was troubling him into something positive.

Wes nodded, the concern in his eyes deepening as he tried to figure out what was bothering his friend.

"Well it happened again on Friday night. I shared a dream with the same guy, only this time I decided to introduce myself to him."

Wes' mouth twisted with sympathy, understanding dawning in his eyes. "I'm guessing it didn't go well."

Blaine automatically lifted a hand to run through his hair in frustration, only to drop it back to his side when his mind caught up with his arm and reminded him of the amount of gel holding his hair in its neat, slicked down style. He let out a huff instead. "He didn't say _anything_; just took one shocked, scared look at me and then ran off. I tried to follow him, but he disappeared pretty quickly. He must have woken up." He sighed, looking almost pleadingly at Wes. "Do you think I've ruined any chance we had of being friends? I'd hate to be in a strained relationship with the person I'm sharing dreams with."

Wes was silent for a moment, his eyes darting from side-to-side a few times as he thought over what Blaine had just said. "I think you're latching onto the negative side of this far too quickly. You've only shared dreams with this guy twice and the first time was barely worth mentioning; you can't be pessimistic already."

Blaine nodded. He'd already known this, but having Wes tell it to him somehow made it actually sink in. By having someone repeat his own thoughts it was affirmed that what he had been thinking was right and he wasn't on the wrong path. He doubted this conversation with Wes would completely clear his head of all of his worries on the subject, but it took some of the weight off his shoulders and helped straightened out the tangled mess in his mind.

"You're overthinking things, Blaine," Wes added, giving Blaine a small smile. "Most likely, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for what happened: maybe he is afraid of his condition, maybe he's worried about communicating with the person he's sharing his dreams with, maybe he's scared of the relationship you two may have. Until you know his side of the story you shouldn't be so worried about it, especially seeing as it's only early days. Give it some time." He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful, before grinning. "Oh, and by the sounds of it you _did _sneak up on him; that can be pretty scary."

Ignoring this last remark, Blaine thought it all over, remembering the genuine shock in the boy's eyes when he'd turned around and found Blaine standing there, the uncertainty that had crept into his expression when Blaine had introduced himself. He could understand why the boy has been shocked and scared – he felt the same way – but didn't he see how important it was that they got along? Couldn't he have pushed aside his fears long enough to shake Blaine's hand and say hello for the sake of making things more comfortable between them in the future? They couldn't always avoid or ignore each other, could they?

Wes seemed to read what was on Blaine's mind.

"Give it some time, Blaine," he repeated. "You'll only make it worse if you keep thinking like this." He checked his watch and gently nudged Blaine so he started to walk down the corridor. "We'd better hurry or we'll be late, and I for one don't want to get in Mrs. Green's bad books again."

Blaine did his best to stay focused on his classes, concentrating twice as hard as normal upon what his teachers were saying and on his work, but as soon as the school day was over and he was back home he let that focus slide. Dashing up to his room, he fired up his laptop and opened the internet search browser with a determined air. Feeling a cautious mix of hope and dread, he typed his request into the search bar.

'Oneironautic dream travelling.'

It wasn't his first time doing research on this subject, he'd done it before many times when he'd been feeling particularly curious or anxious about it, going through page after page of results and reading anything that looked credible. The difference now was that he wasn't desperately looking for research papers or scientific articles detailing the current understanding of the science behind travelling or all the failed attempts at relieving people of these intense dreams; today he was looking for stories from fellow travellers.

He'd never read any of these real-life accounts, dismissing these posts as unlikely to tell him anything he didn't already know. He'd thought only evidence-based scientific articles were of any value to him. Back when he'd been diagnosed as a teenager starting to go through puberty, as nearly all were at diagnosis, his doctor had suggested reading online posts of experiences of others with the condition and even writing about his own thoughts and feelings as a way of coming to terms with his condition and gaining a richer understanding of it. He'd never done it.

Leaning closer to his computer screen, Blaine scrolled past all the links to papers describing clinical trial results and articles on the cold, hard facts and current favored theories until he reached the blogs and forum posts. He scanned the short excerpts of the posts until he came across one he liked the sound of and clicked on the link.

The webpage that loaded on his computer was from some kind of online support group for oneironautics. The post was someone describing a particular dream they had shared with someone they travelled with frequently. The dream had been particularly distressing for this person, mostly because it had kept them asleep for almost three days. Reading through the rest of the post, Blaine guessed the author was having some problems with work because of their condition, but they appeared to find solace in their dreaming partner as they were especially understanding and comforting. Reading through a few more of the author's more recent posts, Blaine discovered the poster had a good friendship with their dream partner, one that, to Blaine, had recently seemed a bit too idealistic.

Sitting back in his desk chair, Blaine contemplated what he'd just read. It appeared to be completely possible to have what he had hoped for: friendship with the boy from his dreams. By the sounds of things, forming a close friendship with a dream partner was extremely beneficial, both for managing the dreams and the condition as well as for everyday life. This confirmation of what he had always hoped to be true was all fair and good, but it wasn't much use if the boy he shared dreams with wouldn't talk to him.

Scrolling back up to the top of the page, Blaine clicked through to the main homepage of the forum and quickly found what he was looking for: a thread on travelling for the first time.

He spent the next hour reading through accounts of people sharing their dreams for the first time. As he had expected, there was an entire spectrum of experiences, ranging from meetings between the two travellers that had gone disastrously wrong to those that had gone so well it was almost movielike. He felt a little better after reading about people who had gotten off to a rocky start with their dream partner, yet had still gone on to become good friends with them. It was solid proof that he and the boy from his dreams could still have the close friendship he wished for. However, the pessimistic part of him occasionally took over and his gaze would drift back to the posts detailing how sharing your dreams with someone could be horrible – cases where relationships had turned sour and the poster now dreaded going to sleep each night. He read the paragraphs about how everything had gone wrong over and over again, making his stomach churn uncomfortably and his heart race from the fear his body was swimming in. He kept telling himself it was stupid to worry after only two dreams, but he couldn't help but focus on the worst case scenario.

Eventually, he tore his eyes away from the forum and forced himself to shut down the computer. He wouldn't do anymore research. Wes was right: he just needed to give this boy some time to get used to the idea of them sharing their dreams. The next time they shared a dream he would keep his distance. He would wait for the boy to approach him when he was ready. He would just have to hope their bad start wasn't an omen of things to come. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Quicker update this time!

Nothing much to say here, except I hope you are all still enjoying this story.

Thank you all for reading! Additional thank you to those of you who have left reviews!

And thanks to my beta, BleedingHeartsBeFree :)


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt recognized what Blaine was doing right away.

In the first dream they shared after Blaine's failed friendly introduction, Blaine kept his distance; he stayed within sight of Kurt, but always out of earshot and too far away for any sort of eye contact to be held. Kurt knew he was giving him space – or, at least that's what he hoped he was doing; he just as well could have been staying away because of his rudeness. He was pretty confident the latter wasn't true, though.

The dream was short. They were both in a large hall that reminded Kurt of the insides of the old European cathedrals he'd seen on TV with huge, arched, leaded windows letting streams of sunlight flood the room like cutting golden bars through the dusty air. The floor was made of stone and was worn into uneven curves and hollows in places. The hall was empty save for the two of them, standing at opposite sides of the hall. Kurt expected his footsteps to echo in such a large, empty space, but he heard only silence.

Kurt walked slowly down the length of his side of the hall, pausing frequently. As he did so he ran through dozens of different scenarios in his head, ways in which he could apologise to Blaine and get them back onto the right track. Every now and then he would shoot a not-so-covert glance across at Blaine, watching the other boy take in the view of a huge stained glass window dominating the end wall of the hall. His profile was caught strikingly against the background of one of the many windows, his sculptured jawline, full lips, and the curling hair escaping from a prison of gel catching Kurt's attention. Once or twice he just missed meeting Blaine's gaze, and his heart skipped at the thought that Blaine was just as intrigued by him as he was.

He had just decided on what he was going to say and had managed to stuff all of the residual worry that Blaine was annoyed at him into a locked box in the back of his mind, when an odd movement in the corner of his eye distracted him.

The hall had abruptly, inexplicably doubled in size. The high wooden double doors that had stood not too far away from him were now a good distance away, the aged spots and whorls in the wood and intricate carvings no longer visible. Unlike the half of the hall that he and Blaine were in, this newly materialised part wasn't empty; instead, it was filled with benches, chairs, and couches of all styles, shapes, and sizes, arranged into rows facing the doors. In his peripheral vision, Kurt saw Blaine turning to look at this sudden addition as well.

Kurt frowned at the rows of seating. It was an odd sight to see in a place like this, and it was even stranger that it had all suddenly appeared in between one blink of an eye and the next. It was all very wei-

Kurt's eyes opened to the dark ceiling of his bedroom. He groaned, feeling frustrated with himself. He knew exactly why he had woken up at that particular point – it was something he'd managed to piece together over the years, but had also been proposed by scientists in various research publications: his subconscious mind had recognised something unusual, something that practically had a big sign pointing at it saying '_this is not real!_'. He had subconsciously become aware that he was dreaming and his body had jerked him awake. Sometimes, it took hours for him to realise he was dreaming – there had been cases where it had taken people years to wake up – but of course he was pulled awake after barely any time at all when he wanted to put things right with Blaine.

Huffing in annoyance, Kurt rolled over onto his other side and got comfortable, trying to fall asleep again. He knew the chances of dreaming lucidly again that night was very slim, and the chances of seeing Blaine slimmer again, but it was still a school night and it was late; he needed his sleep.

He was glad he managed to fall asleep relatively quickly as the next day at school was hell. From the moment he got out of his car in the parking lot it started.

"Hey, Hummel, who are you trying to impress in those fancy, girly clothes you always wear? Any man stupid enough to be interested will only see you on your knees!"

Inhaling deeply, Kurt ignored the insult, and began speed-walking towards the front doors. Cackling laughter trailed after him as he crossed the parking lot in record time and flew up the steps and into school. He rolled his shoulders on his way to his locker, determinedly brushing the insult off. That same group of meatheads, led by the shaved head of Luke Whitman, had been targeting him for years, throwing insults, water balloons, and homophobic remarks his way whenever they weren't shoving him into lockers, tripping him up on the stairs, or tossing him in the dumpster. When complaining to the principal had done nothing he'd learned to let it all run off him like water off a duck's back – mostly.

Today was one of those days Kurt could tell would be hard; today he wouldn't be able to ignore every insult or dust himself off and carry on as normal after he was slammed into the lockers. He knew from the moment he stepped out of his car that today he would rather be in one of his dreams.

His suspicions were confirmed when he was tripped up on his way to sit down in his first class, had balled-up pieces of paper with homophobic slurs and crude drawings scrawled on them pelted at him during the following class, and his books were deliberately knocked out of his hands as he walked in the halls. He began to wonder if they had coordinated it, if they'd all been part of a campaign to make his life hell on that particular day.

By lunchtime he wanted nothing more than to go home and shut himself up in his room. It didn't help that his friends weren't being particularly supportive. They made some sympathetic noises and Rachel gave a short speech about rising above them and fighting through it, but they were all too preoccupied with their own problems to give him too much focus. Feeling a little lonely and snubbed, Kurt found himself thinking about Blaine again, wishing he'd had a chance to speak to him, wondering if he would understand his situation or if he wouldn't know what to say either. He could only hope he wasn't like Luke, making both his waking and dreaming hours hell.

By the time Kurt was driving home he had new bruises forming on his left elbow and hip from where he'd collided with the lockers, a few pages in one of his textbooks had been torn when his books had been smacked out of his grasp and someone else had deliberately stood on them, and he'd been insulted and mocked in more ways than he could count. Tears prickled his eyes and his throat closed up, but he bit his lip and forced deep breaths in and out of his lungs. He would not cry.

The house was empty when he got home, both his dad and Carole out at work. He welcomed being alone for a couple more hours, needing the time to compose himself and hitch a content smile on his face for his family. They knew he was having problems with bullies, but they didn't know how bad it was, and he had no intention of giving them the full picture. Simply put, he just didn't want them to worry. He was managing, he was surviving, he was getting through each day – there wasn't really much for them to be concerned about. Besides that, he and his dad had already tried speaking to the principal; there was nothing more anyone could do to help him. All they could do was worry, and they had enough on their plates without that added stress.

Lying on his bed sprawled out on his back, Kurt listened to music on his iPod. Music had always been important to him; it never failed to soothe him or shift his mood to the tone of whatever he was listening to and it united him with people he may not otherwise know – he owed most of his friends to the connection music provided. Singing was another passion of his; it was his way of expressing himself when he couldn't find words. This was why he'd eagerly joined his school's Glee club when it had been revitalised last year. It was in those meetings in the dusty choir room, that he had befriended Rachel, Sam, and his other friends. Everyone tended to stick together in Glee – they weren't exactly popular with the rest of the student body. Unfortunately, there was little they could do to help him; he couldn't be frogmarched to each classroom or shielded from the bullies every second he was on school grounds. His friends did the best they could and they _did_ help – but sometimes it just wasn't enough.

Switching to an upbeat song, Kurt relaxed into the mattress and closed his eyes. He soon found a small smile on his face as the negativity rapidly drained from his body. Just one year and he would be done with high school and out of Lima, Ohio. Just one year and he would be away from all of the shit and living a much happier life.

When his dad and Carole arrived home and they asked him about his day over dinner he was able to smile and say it was fine.

Over the next two weeks Kurt waited on tenterhooks to travel again. He had many lucid dreams, but Blaine wasn't present in any of them. He recognised almost immediately when he was alone in his dreams, unable to sense Blaine's presence. It was only after a week or so of this that he realized he was able to sense such a thing as Blaine being present. He couldn't quite explain it, really, just that _something_ was missing, something that had been there in the dreams he'd shared with Blaine.

As time went by and no Blaine appeared in his dreams, he became frustrated and even searched online for ways to induce dream travel, but found nothing.

Annoyed, he was forced to wait for it to just happen.

One night, over two weeks after the day of the Campaign To Make Kurt's Day Hell, Kurt went to bed after agonizing over an English essay for three and a half hours and found himself standing in scrubby parkland. He had barely taken in his surroundings when he knew: Blaine was in the dream with him.

With his heart beating wildly and an effervescent mixture of hope and nervous excitement building in his stomach, Kurt scanned the area frantically for any sign of Blaine, spotting him almost straight away.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Kurt walked over to Blaine, praying he wouldn't move from where he was standing. His feet made no noise as he strode through the long, scruffy grass with its tangle of weeds. As Blaine was facing away from him, Kurt didn't think he heard him approaching, but when they were a few feet apart, Blaine turned to face him. Kurt's greeting caught in his throat.

Blaine was stunning; more beautiful than he remembered. His skin had natural tan tones to it, his shoulders were broad, and his waist was tiny. But it was his eyes that stood out to Kurt. More breath-taking than what he remembered from the tornado dream, they were a gorgeous honeyed hazel color, flecked with greens and browns, and fringed by long, thick, dark eyelashes.

Kurt swallowed thickly, trying not to let his attraction show. "H- Hi," he stammered. Embarrassment sunk through him like it was a heavy weight he'd just swallowed. "I'm Kurt – Kurt Hummel. I'm really sorry about the way I behaved before – just running off and leaving you hanging. You just surprised me and – I don't know – I was a bit overwhelmed."

Blaine smiled – and oh God, his smile was as beautiful as the rest of him – and offered his hand to Kurt. "It's nice to meet you, Kurt," he said when Kurt shook his hand. "I'm Blaine."

"I know," Kurt said thoughtlessly. Mentally slapping himself, he smiled apologetically at Blaine again. "I really am sorry that I made us start off on the wrong foot. I never meant for sharing dreams with someone to go like this."

Blaine eyed him appraisingly. "How _did _you mean for this to go?"

Frustratingly, Kurt felt himself blushing. "Well, I'd hoped it would all be sunshine and rainbows, to be honest. Like a perfect new friendship. I've always wanted to become good friends with whoever I shared my dreams with."

"Who says we can't be good friends?" Blaine asked, spreading his hands as though posing his question to the entirety of the scrubby parkland. "Just because we had a little hiccup at the start, doesn't mean we can't be friends."

Kurt shook his head briskly, his blush burning hotly on his cheeks. "I was being silly. I've been thinking of everything that could go wrong and every reason you had to dislike me."

Smiling understandingly, Blaine laid a hand on Kurt's arm. Kurt jumped slightly, his blush impossibly darkening further at the feel of Blaine's warm, soft hand on his arm. "Kurt, so far, I've got no reason to dislike you, and there's no sense in worrying about every possible thing that could go wrong." He patted Kurt's arm and removed his hand. "I think we can say that this probably won't be all sunshine and rainbows, though. We may not be in the real world, but this is still very much a version of reality."

Kurt nodded his agreement and they fell silent for a moment, Blaine staring across the park, while Kurt tried not to ogle him. Blaine was a few inches shorter than him, he noticed. For some reason, the observation made warmth spill into his stomach.

Blaine looked back at him with a dazzling smile. "How about we tell each other a little about ourselves? After all, we're probably going to be spending time together quite regularly for a long time."

"Sure." Kurt looked around at the weedy grass surrounding them and gestured to it. "Um, do you want to sit?"

Blaine flopped down gracefully on the ground where he was standing and Kurt copied him, shifting until he was sitting directly opposite him. The ground was surprisingly comfortable.

"So…" Kurt said, unsure where to begin.

Thankfully, Blaine didn't have such problems.

"What's your favorite music?" he asked eagerly.

"Oh, um…" Kurt was a little thrown by the question; he'd been expecting something more basic and straightforward, such as how old he was.

Sensing Kurt's surprise, Blaine shrugged and explained, "You can tell a lot about someone from how they answer that question."

Kurt thought for a bit. "I'm not sure I have a favorite artist or anything, but I really like a lot of pop stuff, like Lady Gaga. I also love Broadway musical soundtracks, because they tell a story and there's always a song to reflect my current mood." He hesitated for a second, debating how much to reveal, before deciding he might as well just lay his cards on the table and see what kind of person Blaine really was. "I'm in my school's Glee club, so I get exposed to a lot of different music through that."

Blaine's face lit up. "You're in show choir? Me, too!"

Kurt laughed a little from relief and delight. "Wow, really? Do you guys compete?"

Blaine nodded. "We went to Nationals this year, but didn't place."

Kurt raised his eyebrows, impressed. "That's still incredible! We only got as far as Regionals this year, but we're determined to make it all the way next year. What's your group called?"

Blaine's smiled widened. "The Warblers," he replied enthusiastically. "We're an a Capella group."

"A Capella, huh?" With Blaine's gelled hair and debonair looks he could see it, actually. "Our group is called the New Directions. We make a band come with us to competitions to play for us."

They continued to talk about show choir for a while, discussing their individual groups, their experiences competing, and their dream setlists. From there the topic of conversation flowed naturally on to Broadway musicals, then to movies, and then to their hobbies. Kurt described his love of fashion and how he liked to purchase cheap, second-hand clothes from thrift stores and redesign them to give them a fashionable new lease of life. Blaine talked about playing the piano and guitar and how he helped a local children's theatre group every year with their big summer production by helping create sets and playing the piano for them. Kurt soon found himself wondering why he'd been so worried about getting to know Blaine.

It was difficult to tell how long they sat there and talked. Neither of them had access to a clock and the sun never changed position in the sky. It was almost as if time had frozen in the little pocket of the universe where they were sitting. It was wonderful; usually the time spent getting to know someone was cut short by the rest of life, but here it wasn't. And when they person he was getting to know was as fascinating as Blaine, Kurt was glad there were no interruptions.

Kurt found himself liking Blaine more and more as he learned more about him. Blaine was funny, sweet, and seemed genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say. They also had a lot in common, including a shared love of music, _Vogue_ magazine, vintage bowties, and old movies. It was nice to be able to talk enthusiastically with someone about so much.

In a brief pause at the tail-end of an in-depth discussion on the latest musical-to-movie adaptation, Blaine vanished without warning. Kurt only had a second to blink in surprise at the empty space in front of him before understanding trickled to the forefront of his brain and he woke up.

At first, disappointment fizzled through him at not getting to spend a little more time with Blaine, but then he thought about how long they'd spoken and how much they knew about each other now… With this thought and the knowledge that he'd share many more dreams with Blaine in mind, he reached to grab his phone from the nightstand and switched off his alarm. The day was looking to be a good one.

* * *

><p>It started the moment Blaine arrived home after Warbler practice. Both of his parents were already home and they were sitting in the living room, just off the entrance hall, waiting for him. He knew as soon as he stepped foot inside and saw them sitting there – his mom on the couch, his dad in his favorite armchair – that they were about to lecture him on something. He'd only come home to them sitting waiting for him like this a few times, but each time had been because they were disappointed about something: his grade in a test one time, his decision to stop a particular therapy, when he'd agreed to some extra volunteering hours with the children's theatre group during the school semester. Unlike all of those other times, he didn't know what this lecture could possibly be about. He hesitated in the doorway for a tense moment, his fingers twitching nervously against the strap of his satchel, until he decided to bite the bullet and get whatever this was over with.<p>

Taking a strengthening breath, Blaine entered the living room. His parents looked at him coolly.

"Sit down, Blaine," his dad said, his voice controlled and toneless in a manner that Blaine associated with him being deeply frustrated and disappointed in something Blaine had said or done.

Heart thumping loudly, Blaine perched on the very edge of the couch, his back ramrod straight and his posture stiff. He wanted to speak up and ask what was going on, but his throat was stuck with worry; if he didn't already know what this was about then it must have been something especially bad. He only hoped they wouldn't forbid him from going to the theatre again.

His dad didn't keep him in suspense for long.

"Your mother and I would like to know why you aren't seeing your doctor, or on a treatment regime?" his dad asked levelly, still dangerously and deceivingly calm, like the turquoise waters with the poisonous jellyfish below the surface. Unless Blaine backed down quickly and apologised profusely, his calm demeanor would shatter.

Blaine's mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. Of all the possible disappointing actions he'd thought may have triggered this discussion, his decision to temporarily stop seeking treatment for his condition hadn't been one of them.

"I-" He floundered for a moment before being able to reply. "I just wanted a break from constantly testing different treatments that don't work," he explained, his words coming out defensive. "I told Mom this after my last appointment with Dr. Lewis."

His mom nodded in acknowledgement. "Yes, but that was _weeks_ ago. And you told me Dr. Lewis would contact you if there was any news from some of the current trials, but there's been no word from her."

"How do you know I haven't heard from her?"

His mom shook his head at him. "Well, you haven't been to see her, have you?" When Blaine said nothing to this, only stared helplessly back, she added, "I know for a fact there have been new developments, including more trial recruiting and an alternative medicine option, yet you've discussed none of this with her."

"Why are you suddenly avoiding trying to find something to help yourself?" his dad asked. "You've been happily going along to appointments and taking part in the trials we've suggested for years – why are you being so stubborn now?"

"Yes," Blaine agreed, careful not to raise his voice or let too much of his agitation slip into his tone, "and look how much those treatments and appointments helped. I don't want to keep wasting my time with them."

His dad folded his arms tightly across his chest and his stony face pinched into an angry frown. "So you're giving up?" He shook his head. "I hope you don't have the same defeatist attitude with your school work."

Blaine let out a small huff of frustration. "I've been trying to find something for almost four years! That's hardly defeatist!"

From the expressions on his parent's faces, neither of them agreed with him. Blaine tried to think of a way to make them understand, but he couldn't think of anything he hadn't said already. They didn't know what it was like to be testing a new, elaborate pre-bedtime ritual each month, or to be testing different drugs that did nothing to ease his lucid dreams but still caused sometimes nasty side effects, or to be poked and prodded by researchers and spend nights in the sleep lab hooked up to monitors. It was easy for them to say he should stick with it, but there was only so much he could take.

"Don't you want to stop those dreams?" his mom asked. "Don't you want to be able to sleep normally?"

"I- Of course I do!" Blaine stammered. "But I've got more important things to worry about just now: I'll be in senior year soon and then there'll be college applications and exams… I don't have the time to travel to see doctors or to be feeling spaced out from some medication. I don't see why I can't wait until they bring out a treatment that is proven to work."

His parents exchanged a look and Blaine knew things were about to get worse. His dad sat forward in his chair, unfolding his arms and resting his elbows on his knees. His frown deepened and his eyes narrowed.

"I don't know who's been putting these ridiculous ideas in your head, Blaine, but you need to have a good, long think about what you're doing. If you had diabetes or a heart condition you'd be religiously taking your medications and keeping on top of the latest trials and treatments, so why aren't you doing the same for your condition?"

"You're being immature and irresponsible, Blaine," his mom agreed gravely, her face knitted in a stern frown.

"My condition isn't as serious as heart disease," Blaine retorted. "All it does is make me a bit tired at times. I can manage taking a break from being on a treatment regime."

"Some serious illnesses don't cause any major problems, either, until it's too late," his mom pointed out.

"I'm not ill," Blaine said through gritted teeth.

"Not now you're not," his dad acknowledged. "But what you have isn't healthy; it's all going to catch up on you eventually." Shaking his head at Blaine, his dad stood up. "You can't carry on being childish about this, Blaine. Grow up and think of your health."

Jumping to his feet, Blaine scowled at his parents. He couldn't take much more of this. He was almost seventeen years old and he was being treated as if he were a child who was incapable of making sensible decisions about his life. He was the one who had the condition, he was the one who had to deal with the consequences of it, so why shouldn't he be the one who made the decisions about treatment? And he knew his parents would be quick to complain if his grades slipped, yet they weren't listening to his comments about how all of the drugs and trials affected his school work. He was tired of it.

"I _am_ thinking of my health when I say that being on all of these therapies and trials is driving me crazy. None of them made me sleep better – some of them made it worse!" He breathed out harshly, releasing some of his frustration along with his breath. "I'm not saying I never want to treat this; I just want a break from trying to do so."

"You're making a mistake," his dad said, his voice still sharp with anger.

Blaine shrugged. "It's my mistake to make."

With his point made, Blaine turned and left the room. On his way up the stairs to his room, he heard his parents start talking again, no doubt discussing him and his poor decisions. He'd always struggled with going against his parent's wishes and disappointing them, but this was the one time he couldn't back down in an attempt to please them. He was _sick_ of being a guinea pig for a conveyor belt of treatments that were guaranteed to fail and, though he'd never admit it to anyone, he didn't want to risk one of these treatments finally working, not now, not when he was only just beginning to get to know Kurt Hummel. 

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Finally some decent interaction between Kurt and Blaine! There's plenty more to come ;)

I think I mentioned this in an earlier note, but I'm increasing the rating to M. This is for themes in later chapters (use of medicinal drugs as a coping mechanism and sex scene(s)). Nothing is extremely explicit, but if you're concerned and still want to continue reading, I'm happy to give more details over pm.

Thanks to everyone reading/reviewing!

And thanks as always to my beta, BleedingHeartsBeFree! :)


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